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The Great Offensive
Prelude The year is 2556. On the rebel controlled planet of Venezia, the United Nations Space Command is back to settle old scores with the United Rebel Front. With the initial stage of the UNSC's invasion having pushed back the URF's forces considerably, a concerted offensive to turn the tide of the war is the Insurrection's only chance. Chapter 1 Everybody Wants To Rule This World March 5th, 2556 Outskirts of New Tyne, Venezia 0642 Hours "Lieutenant Vanquinn!" Venezian Army Lieutenant Samuel Vanquinn awoke with a start as a private from his unit came running at him, calling his name. Still drowsy from his rest during the night, in a slurred voice, Vanquinn responded, "Yeah, what is it?" "Message for you, sir.", the private responded. "A message? From who?" "General Bronin." Those simple two words piqued Vanquinn's curiosity, and he blinked several times, before finally responding, "You're sure?" "Yes." "Alright then, give it to me." As the private held out a brown manila envelope, Vanquinn quickly grabbed it and tore it open, pulling out a single piece of stationary, and began reading it to himself, "All units that are currently positioned for the defense of New Tyne, prepare to make advances on the UNSC units currently approaching the city with all due speed. The second set of orders will be given to unit commanders at 2300 Hours on the night of March 5th. Signed, General Daniel Bronin, Venezian Army" Once he had finished reading it, the Lieutenant handed it to his second in command, one Sergeant Yuri Zwintin, and said, "Pass it along to all the squad leaders, and report back to me when you are finished." As Zwintin jumped off the armored personnel carrier and headed to carry out Vanquinn's orders, the Lieutenant said, "So we're making a daring offensive to try and take out the UNSC, but we're leaving New Tyne open for capture behind us? Do you understand it Sergeant? I don't." Zwintin continued on, assuming Vanquinn's remark was rhetorical. 30 Minutes Later Loading 7.62mm rounds into his MA3A's magazine, Vanquinn was tapped on his shoulder, and turned around to see Sergeant Zwintin. "You finished?", he asked. "Yes, all the orders have been received by the squad leaders, and they're making preparations to move now.", he responded. "Good. Tell them to use this time wisely. We're not moving out until sundown. We'll lose at least half the unit if we do move in daylight, like poor Major Henderson." "Yeah, I heard about them. Poor bastards didn't even get a chance to fight." "Exactly. We've got too little armament to waste it in moving along in fits and jerks. Sun usually goes down at about six or seven in the evening. We'll get moving then." "Understood. What about the Venezian Air Force." "Them? We can only rely on them to keep the UNSC air support off of our backs, but I don't know how many will be allowed to perform CAS." "Apparently. Do you think this'll work? "The offensive you mean?" "Yes." "I have no reason to believe it won't. We might not have complete air superiority, and that will make things harder, but we can certainly win. UNSC's stretching themselves dangerously thin. And if we do win, we can bring them to the negotiating table." "Let's hope." "Indeed. Alright, look at this.", Vanquinn said as he laid a marked up map of the surrounding area on the hull of the APC. Motioning to two red arrows, he said, "We'll be part of one of these pincers, probably the one to the east, and help in cutting off the advance units of the UNSC's 23rd Armored Cavalry." Pointing at a green arrow going straight into UNSC lines, he continued, "According to what I've been able to glean from other officers, the armored units will be making a drive right up the center, making it critical that we take out the advance units, so they can't seal up the breach in their lines." "Hrm. This seems more and more like it'll work with the more you tell me." Vanquinn smiled, and said, "Well then, let's hope your hopes come to pass. Carry on, report to me at 1830 Hours for a final meeting before we move out." "Yessir.", Zwintin said, and he walked off to continue his duties. Vanquinn looked up as, in the distance, a group of rebel troops began belting out a badly off tune version of "When Johnny Reb Comes Marching Home". Although their singing hurt his ears, Vanquinn smiled. It wasn't just a song, it was a sign that morale was up, and, in the Lieutenant's mind, this offensive had a chance. "...and we'll all feel gay when Johnny Reb comes marching home!" Beginning of The End March 5th, 2556 Outskirts of New Tyne, Venezia 2330 Hours In the turret of his APC, Vanquinn looked down as Zwintin skidded to a halt at the foot of the vehicle, and quickly saluted. Returning his second in command's salute, Vanquinn asked, "Is everyone ready?" "Yes sir.", Zwintin responded. "Then let's get moving." "Yessir! Move out!", Zwintin yelled to the rest of the unit. "Best of luck Sergeant." "And to you too sir." Vanquinn smiled as he ducked into his APC, and closed the hatch behind him. Taking his seat in the vehicle, which was specially modified to act as a command APC, the Lieutenant initialized the radio, as well as various command and control systems, and prepared for war. Although he liked to act like he was ready for a fight, Vanquinn was terrified. He had not seen live fire since a year before during field exercises, and had never fought the fabled UNSC. He had wished, as a young starry eyed teen, that he did have a chance to fight them, but now, with it staring him in the face, he was scared, his hands shaking as he grabbed the radio, and said, "All units, move out." As the APC lurched to life beneath him, Vanquinn heard someone playing the ancient ballad, "The Foggy Dew", over the radio. Although one was not supposed to use the radio for music, the Lieutenant declined to order whoever it was doing it to stop. He, at least, felt it was fitting. As the song faded away, there was no talking amongst the unit. Aside from the roar of motors and treads, there was not a sound. They all had waited for this moment, but, now that it was staring them in the face, things were different. As he began to drift off, Vanquinn was awoken from his stupor. "Contact! Direct front!", yelled the gunner of his. Positioning his eyes to the frontal view screens, there it was: Two M12 LRV's, each carrying several troops in a larger rear, rather than the regular M41 chaingun. "Fire!", yelled Vanquinn, and the 25mm chaingun in his APC's turret spat armor piercing rounds at the vehicles, tearing into their hulls. One vehicle exploded immediately, killing everyone inside it instantly, and the other's driver threw it into reverse. But it was too late. A flurry of rounds from the AIE-486H machine guns of the other vehicles of the unit tore into it too, ripping the passengers inside to ribbons. As the vehicle moved closer to the destroyed 'Hogs, Vanquinn averted his eyes from the viewscreens, trying to avoid the sight of the burnt and broken bodies of the UNSC soldiers. Such a sight should have brought him joy, he felt. But it did not. The only things he felt was a need to keep moving, to avoid looking at their bodies. Overhead, even through the thick armor of the vehicle, the Lieutenant heard the scream of Venezian Air Force jets roaring above. "Good luck boys.", he whispered, as the convoy continued to move forward. Once the unit had made their way past the destroyed Warthogs, Vanquinn opened the hatch, and popped his head out, scanning the area with a pair of binoculars. Increasing the zoom on them, he spotted several Venezian Army tanks chasing down a single M808 Scorpion that bore the markings of the 23rd Armored Cavalry Brigade. Ducking back into the APC, Vanquinn grabbed the radio. With what he had seen, he found it hard to find joy in the destruction being wrought by the offensive. And yet, he felt pride in his colony, fighting off the cronies of tyrants. And so, he spoke into it, on an open channel to his unit, "Boys, we've got the UNSC on the run. Let's keep the momentum going! For Far Isle, for Secundus, for all those butchered or left to die by the UNSC, forward!" Beneath him, Vanquinn's APC rumbled as the driver pushed the engine harder, allowing the vehicle, heavy with command equipment, armaments, ammunition, and men, to pick up more speed. As Vanquinn's unit continued forward, what few bomber squadrons of the Venezian Air Force that remained continued roaring overhead, pounding forward UNSC units, the dull booming of bombs detonating echoing through the night. As the motorized convoy continued forward, for nearly half an hour, they came into no contact with UNSC units, only the smoldering husks of the 23rd's advance units, destroyed either by the armor tipped spearheads of the Venezian Army, or the constant air attack of the Venezian Air Force. But, along the way, they saw destroyed Venezian vehicles as well, their blackened hulls frozen in their position. As he contemplated the utter destruction he was witnessing, Vanquinn was snapped out of his meditation over the radio, as one man called out "Hornets, coming in at one o'clock!" "Shoot them down!" yelled Vanquinn, and in the instant afterward, he heard the turret of his APC whirring as the autocannon trained on the VTOLs. And seven seconds after he issued his command, the night sky was filled with tracers from both sides. Within a minute, the Hornets were smoking wreckage. But it had a cost. "We have two Spades down!" Sergeant Zwintin yelled. Vanquinn swallowed hard. He had never lost a man in combat. But that would have to wait until later. There were UNSC to fight. "Search for survivors, and keep going." he said in a monotone voice, still trying to process the report he had just heard. "How many Hornets did we get?" Vanquinn asked. "Two, from the looks of it." replied Zwintin. Two Hornets for two Spades full of troops. In the eyes of a more battle hardened commander, that might be a fair tradeoff, acceptable losses even. But for Vanquinn, that was unacceptable in the extreme. He would have to keep a closer watch out for any UNSC air attacks. The Venezian Air Force would not be around for much longer. Barely half an hour after the skirmish with the Hornets, a flurry of shells rocked the convoy. "Artillery!" yelled one young private over the radio. "Scatter!" replied Vanquinn over a COM to the whole unit. But it was too late. As the second round of shells whizzed in, seven of the ten Spades were destroyed, but the APC's were saved from destruction. Getting back on the radio, Vanquinn yelled "Ditch the Spades, ride on the APCs. Those damn things are deathtraps! If you can, destroy them with a grenade, but do it now!" Within two minutes, the three other Spades were smoking wrecks, and the rest of the unit was riding on the APC's. "Driver, take us off the road. This place is becoming a highway of death." The driver of Vanquinn's APC followed his order, and drove over the wreck of a Spade, moving into the relatively flat grassland that surrounded the highway. Popping the top of his head out of the APC, Vanquinn raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and, focusing on a clump of tiny flashes of light several hundred feet away, he spotted a group of twenty rebel troops under attack by at least thirty UNSC troops. "Get us moving forward, take out that UNSC infantry unit!" In the about half hour since he had lost his first men in battle, Vanquinn's sadness had begun to fade away. Replacing it was anger, anger that the UNSC would dare to try and take the planet back, and anger that they had killed his men. Grabbing his MA3A, Vanquinn hoisted himself on top of the APC, and waited. As the UNSC troops began to come into range, he leveled his rifle, and fired. Almost in unison with Vanquinn's shots, the APCs' machine guns and autocannons, as well as the rifles of other troops on the vehicles, let loose in a cacophony of death. Seven UNSC troops were killed in the initial volley, and one M41 LAAG armed Warthog, manned by one gunner, went up in flames, wounding several others. Panicking as the APC's began to approach their position, the UNSC troops broke rank and retreated. "Pursue them!" yelled Vanquinn, not just to his APCs, but also to the troops they had just saved. As per the Lieutenant's orders, the tracked vehicles turned in place, and charged after the retreating UNSC, twenty rebel infantry in tow. As the UNSC troops continued to squeeze off shots at the Venezians, the latter kept on firing at the retreating forces. Peering through his binoculars once again, Vanquinn spotted a whole UNSC camp, most likely the base from which the thirty UNSC troops came. As the rebel unit drew closer, Vanquinn loaded a grenade into his rifle's underslung launcher, and fired into the camp. In reply, the UNSC fired back a flurry of various caliber rounds. "Dismount, dismount!" Vanquinn yelled, and he hopped off the APC. "APCs, provide us covering fire as we move in!" he continued, as he waved the unit forward. Sprinting forward, caught in the crossfire between both sides, Vanquinn and his troops found cover behind the sandbag barriers of the camp. Popping over his piece of cover, Vanquinn spotted a grouping of M41 SSR wielding UNSC troopers. He began to call out to the APCs over the radio, but it was too late. The rockets had already been fired, and moments later, they hit. Two APCs went up in flames immediately, their ammunition storage hit, and the other two were disabled, forcing their crew to dismount. "Covering fire! Cover the crew as they come to us!" yelled Vanquinn. "Come on guys, move!" he continued, yelling at the surviving crew, before popping up, and helping cover their movement. As he fired his MA3A, Vanquinn spotted a flash as one rebel soldier's incendiary grenade found its mark, a grouping of tents not far from the rebels' position. The fire spread quickly, and the smoke began to obscure the vision of both sides. "Over the top, clear the place out!" yelled Vanquinn over the din of battle. Heaving himself over the sandbags, Vanquinn charged through the smoke, and began clearing the camp. Slinging his MA3A in favor of his M6H Magnum, Vanquinn slowly began to move through the rows of tents, looking for the UNSC troops. In the dry conditions, the fire had quickly spread, and thick black smoke filled the campsite. For nearly another two hours, the unit continued to sweep the massive camp. But there was no sign of the UNSC troops. "Regroup at the entrance to the camp. We're done here." ordered Vanquinn, and, within several minutes, the entire unit was grouped up around him. Turning to the rebels, Vanquinn began to speak. "We've got the UNSC on the run gents. But the sun will be coming up in short. Find cover, prepare to hold this position against any UNSC counterattacks." "Yes sir!" responded the unit, as they went to attend to their duties. On A Wing and A Prayer March 5th, 2556 New Tyne, Venezia 2349 Hours "All pilots, scramble! All pilots, scramble!" As the alarm sounded in the ready room of his squadron, Venezian Air Force Adam Kowal jumped to his feet, along with the other seven pilots of his unit, and, flight helmet under one arm, he sprinted out of the room, quickly shoving open the door that led to the prefab building that held the ready room, where they had been briefed on General Bronin's plan to launch a concerted counteroffensive against the UNSC. Although he was a green pilot, Kowal was confident in himself, and more than willing to fight the UNSC. Jumping onto the ladder, Kowal climbed into the cockpit of his turboprop attack aircraft as a rebel ground crewman pulled the ladder away the airplane. Lowering and locking the canopy, Kowal quickly went through the preflight checklist, and started the engine. As the turboprop engine of his aircraft coughed and roared to life, Kowal proceeded to initialize the rest of the plane's systems. Hooking his oxygen mask into the port in the cockpit, Kowal also lowered his helmet's visor, and, with the tap of a button on the side of the helmet, the world around him turned a greenish hue as the night vision initialized as well. Following the rest of his squadron onto the makeshift runway, the rest of the unit began rapidly taking off, each pilot announcing their departure. "Knight 1, launching!" "Knight 2, launching!" "Knight 3, taking off!" "Knight 4, heading off!" "Knight 5, departing!" "Knight 6, rolling out!" Then came Kowal's turn. "Knight 7, launching!" he said as he grabbed hold of the throttle, and pushed it as far as it would go, sending his plane thundering down the runway. Pulling gently back on the stick, Kowal soared into the air. Once he was confident he wouldn't be crashing back to the ground, he flipped a switch, and, with a whir, the aircraft's undercarriage retracted. Searching the skies for the rest of his squadron, Kowal flew up to join them, taking up his position in the loose, fluid formation. Over the radio, Knight 1, the squadron commander, and hardline rebel officer Captain Francis Pasternack began briefing the rest of the unit as they continued to circle the airfield. "Alright gents, our mission is very simple. We're going to cause havoc amongst the UNSC units our ground forces are attacking. If you encounter any UNSC aircraft, do not, under any circumstances, stay and fight! Leave them to the F/A-440s. If you run out of ammunition and munitions, circle the fight, and point out any targets the rest of us missed. We need to get as many UNSC down as we possibly can. Affirmative?" "Affirmative sir!" responded the rest of the squadron. "Good. Follow me." ordered Captain Pasternack, as he descended down to several hundred feet above the ground, Kowal and the rest of the unit following him down. As they flew above the highways outside of New Tyne, Kowal scanned the ground beneath the squadron, looking for any UNSC anti aircraft teams. But he saw nothing, save for a convoy of several Spades and APC's engaging a pair of Warthog troop transports. But aside from that, it didn't look like they were going to get any combat that day. After nearly half an hour of flying, the squadron was now behind UNSC lines. "Ground and aerial convoy at eleven o'clock!" yelled Knight 2, the second in command of the squadron. Looking for himself, low and behold, Kowal spotted a fairly large UNSC convoy, made up of several types of Warthogs, with a grouping of UH-144 Falcons providing cover. "Tally ho! Engage at will!" ordered Pasternack, and the rebel squadron scattered, each man picking their own target. Flipping the master arm switch in his aircraft's cockpit, Kowal picked out a UH-144 Falcon that had split off from the group as well. Making a tight turn, he slowed the plane down considerably, and, positioning the gunsight on one of the Falcon's engines, let loose with the two autocannons in the plane's wings, spitting armor piercing incendiary rounds at the rotary wing. As the rounds impacted, the engine burst into flames, and the Falcon began to spin. Pulling up to avoid the stricken helo, Kowal twisted around to confirm his kill, and watched the Falcon impact in a fiery explosion. Continuing on for several seconds, Kowal made another turn, and began looking for other targets. With all the ground targets destroyed by his squadronmates, he picked out another Falcon to shoot down. Coming at it in an attempt to knock out its engine, as he did to the other, the trooper manning the M247H machine gun in the aircraft opened fire, with a fusilade of rounds puncturing the canopy, one whizzing past his head and embedding itself in his seat. "Fuck! Shit!" swore Kowal as he was forced to pull off his attack run. Pulling a high G turn, Kowal struggled to stay conscious as he made the turn. Leveling off, he fired a two second burst into the Falcon's cockpit, killing the pilot, and sending it out of control. As it hit the ground, the aircraft did not burst into flames like the first. Turning around, Kowal switched to one of his 250 pound dumb bombs, and positioned the pipper on the downed Falcon. Pressing the button to release the bomb on his stick, the aircraft automatically released the bomb at the right moment. Pulling out, even above the explosion, Kowal felt the rumble as the bomb detonated, killing what survivors remained. As the squadron formed up, orbiting the scattered convoy, it became evident their attack had worked. Although they had not destroyed the entire convoy, the squadron had succeeded in causing some casualties, and forcing the rest to scatter. "Let's get out of here before their air cover shows up." said Pasternack, as he flew lower, trying to get under the UNSC's radar. "We'll head back towards the frontlines. I'm getting reports from an armored unit that they're being held up by some dug in UNSC troops, supported by what they're saying are some SPARTANs. What say you we punch a hole in those defenses?" "Let's do it sir!" responded Kowal. "Right then, follow my lead." As Pasternack turned on a new heading, Kowal once again took up his position in the formation, this time heading further northeast, towards the frontline, where the heaviest action was taking place. It was time, he thought, to do what he was trained for, to rain hell on the fascist UNSC, to aid rebel ground forces in their job. And a SPARTAN team. What a trophy for the rebellion, Kowal thought, as he and the formation continued flying, hugging the terrain to avoid radar detection. "Alright gents, look for the star shells the tanks will be firing, and level that position!" ordered Pasternack. "Follow me in, one after the other, we're going to demolish that defensive positions, and send those SPARTAN assholes to meet the big man in the sky!" As the formation reformed into a line, Kowal found himself third behind Pasternack, and readied his bombs for immediate release. As the formation approached the UNSC position, Pasternack came over the radio. "Alright boys, attack in three, tw-ah!" he yelled, and barely a second later, Kowal saw his squadron leader's aircraft explode in a fireball. "SAM teams! Scatter!" Kowal yelled, as he himself broke formations, and popped chaff and flares, pulling a high G turn. As he came around to make his run, Kowal felt his aircraft shuddering from the forces he was putting on it. This was needed to survive though. Arming his last three bombs, Kowal released them simultaneously, pulling out as they screamed down on the UNSC position. Looking around the sky for the rest of his squadron, Kowal spotted another aircraft going down in flames, and, fed by anger, he turned around again, this time intent on turning the UNSC position into hell, arming his pods of white phosphorous rockets. Although they were usually used to mark targets for artillery, they could just as easily be used to flush infantry out. Positioning the sight on the part of the position closest to him, Kowal fired them, pulling up slightly as he did so, sending the rockets, with their deadly payload, all over the UNSC defensive position. Pulling away to escape the thick smoke the WP rockets inevitably threw up, Kowal reformed with the remaining two aircraft of his squadron. "Let's go home gents. Follow me." Kowal said, as he set his slightly damaged aircraft on a heading towards the airbase. The flight back was somber. Although they had just killed a team of SPARTANs, the fabled UNSC supersoldiers, they had lost four aircraft in the process. After landing, Kowal taxied his aircraft back to the hangar, and, as soon as he shut the engine off, everything turned black as he passed out from exhaustion. Chapter 2 Counterattack Deep Strike Tribunal Category:End of a Dream